Undisputed: How to Become World Champion in 1,372 Easy Steps

by Chris Jericho

  Gordie Howe was signing an autograph, Wayne Gretzky was standing by the bar, Teemu Selänne was—

  Stop. Hold on. Stay in control.

  Wayne Gretzky was standing by the bar!

  My heart jumped into my throat and I immediately forgot about my beloved Cup. It had never treated me right anyway. Besides, just a few feet in front of me was the greatest hockey player of all time. The Canadian Jesus who had been placed on Earth by the Lord above to mystify and amaze us mere mortals, who could only dream to be even 1 percent as talented and as supernatural as the real Great One (sorry, Rock).

  I morphed into Ed Grimley and started running in place while doing an odd hop-type thing every few seconds. How would I approach him? Would he like me? What would I say? My track record when meeting famous people wasn’t very good; I was famous for delivering the worst opening lines whenever I met somebody that I was a fan of. (Those stories and much more are in A Lion’s Tale, available at the Dollar Tree.)

  Finally, I mustered up all my courage and decided to talk to the G-man while I could. I gave my camera to the WWE rep and asked him to take a picture of me with Wayne when the time was right. I walked up to the bar and sidled up next to the Great One, preparing to deliver my carefully prepared opening line asking him which one of his goals was his favorite.

  “Hey!…. ummmm…. you’re Wayne Gretzky, right?”

  What?? No, that’s not what I wanted to say!! I was at the NHL Awards surrounded by hockey players—of course he was Wayne Gretzky! Who else could he be? AHHHHH!!

  Wayne looked at me with a big grin and confirmed the patently obvious.

  I stood there in silence, grinning back. Finally, I worked up the courage to continue talking.

  “My name is Wayne too,” I almost said, before catching myself and saying instead, “Hi Wayne. I wrestle for the WWE and I’m presenting an award tonight. I was wondering if it would it be okay if I took a picture with you?”

  Wayne took a sip of his beer and said, “Yeah, no problem. WWE, huh? I knew I recognized you. You’re Jeff Jericho, right?”

  Boy howdy!! Wayne Gretzky knew my name!!

  Well, half of it at least, and that was good enough for me.

  “So, wrestling, eh? Wow that’s a tough sport, Jeff. I’ve got a lot of respect for you guys. Do you want a beer?”

  Do I want to have a beer with Wayne Gretzky? Does the Pope shit in the woods? I was agog (still a great word) to be shooting the shit with one of my childhood heroes—with his hockey hair, pointy nose, eastern Canadian redneck accent and all. He was super froot and just a regular guy—albeit a regular guy who scored a total 3,239 points in his career.

  We talked for about fifteen minutes about hockey, wrestling, and about my old flame, Cup. He explained how it felt to hoist the Cup for real and laughed when I brought up that he had scored more points against my beloved Winnipeg Jets than any other team. Finally I shook his hand and said, “You know, I was so scared to come talk to you, and now I have no idea why. You’re one of the friendliest people I’ve ever met.”

  “Of course, man, I’m Canadian!”

  He gave me his endearing grin and began to leave. Then he turned around and said, “Anytime you’re in Phoenix, you’ve got to come skate with us. Just let me know and I’ll set it up. Take care, Jeff.”

  Skate with the Great One? Yeah right! I’d spontaneously combust and Jeff Jericho would be gone forever.

  It’s nice when you meet one of your heroes and he turns out to be even frooter than you could’ve imagined. The Great One was a perfect example of that. He smelled good, too.

  People often ask me if I prefer being a babyface or a heel. Honestly, it doesn’t matter to me. I enjoy both, and as long as people are reacting to what I’m doing, I’m happy. Having said that, it’s much easier to make people hate you than it is to make them like you. Wrestling is a strange form of entertainment in that even though people know it’s show business, they still think there’s some reality to it. Sometimes when I meet a fan, they’ll tell me that instead of the jerk they were expecting, I’m actually a nice guy. I always point out that Anthony Hopkins doesn’t really eat people’s livers with some fava beans and a nice Chianti ( slurp-slurp-slurp). It’s just a part he’s playing. It’s the same with me: I’m an actor portraying a character.

  But once in a while, someone will get so mad with my dastardly doings that they’ll attempt vengeance.

  I was in Las Vegas teaming with The Undertaker against Austin and The Rock on Raw and was on the floor jaw-jacking with Austin before the match started. He was cursing at me and giving me the patented Stone Cold finger, and when I looked away in disgust, he punched me in the side of the head.

  I couldn’t figure out why he had hit me so hard or how he had gotten to the floor so fast. When I turned my head to ask him what was up, I saw a complete stranger rearing back to hit me again. It wasn’t Austin who hit me at all, but a rambunctious fan who had jumped over the guardrail to extract his wrath, and he was about to do it a second time. Before he could land another punch, I popped him in the face on live TV. Thankfully, the camera cut to a shot of Austin’s face just as I reared my arm back, saving me from a certain TMZ appearance. The fan hit the ground and before I could pounce on him he was dragged over the barricade by security. As they were manhandling him over the guardrail, I started using his ballbag as a punching bag. I was going all Rocky II on his plums when a hand on my shoulder pulled me away.

  “Take it easy, kid,” Austin said sternly. “You’ve made your point. Time to calm down.”

  You know things are spiraling out of control when Steve Austin is the voice of reason.

  After the show I jumped straight into a cab to go see George Carlin live at the Mirage. I changed out of my gear along the way and made it to the theater with only minutes to spare. I took my seat at a table next to a darling old couple who had to be in their seventies. They were friendly and we struck up a brief conversation. They told me it was their first time in Vegas and this was their very first show.

  “We used to watch George Carlin on The Tonight Show all the time,” the old lady said. “I think he’s so funny!”

  Just then the lights went out and George came onstage to big cheers. The old lady was clapping vociferously while whistling and hollering. George surveyed the cheering crowd and delivered his opening line.

  “So, when was the last time you heard a good pussy fart?”

  Grandma stopped clapping and her face dropped like her breasts without a bra. I glanced at her sheepishly and she stared at me with a look on her face that said, “Why didn’t you warn me he was going to say that?” George continued by asking by a show of hands, how many people in the crowd had ever received a blumpkin, and things just got worse from there.

  It was the longest ninety minutes of my life.

  CHAPTER 18

  MC Hammered

  On September 11, 2001, I woke up, got out of bed, and dragged a comb across my head. I made my way downstairs and drank a cup, and looking up I noticed I was late. I jumped in the car and started driving out of San Antonio, toward Houston where Smackdown! was taping later that night. I had just pulled onto the interstate when I got a call from my dad.

  “Terrorists have attacked New York City and blown up the World Trade Center. Fifty thousand people have already been killed!” It was amazing how quickly false facts and figures spread that morning, but the truth was scary enough. I switched on the car radio and listened to the various reports of what was happening. As the horrible story unfolded, I continued driving to Houston, because no matter the situation, I’d been trained that the show must go on.

  When I got there, the arena was empty because the show had been canceled. Ultimately, it was decided that all of us would have to stay in Houston until Thursday to do the show. I spent the next two days trying to adhere to some sort of normal routine as the entire country was falling apart and living in fear. Everywhere you looked people were gathered around TVs and radios trying to get
information, expecting the end of the free world at any moment.

  On September 13, the WWE held the first mass public gathering in the United States after the attack. The mayor of Houston asked us to perform in hopes that the show would take people’s minds off the tragedy, which wasn’t an easy task as we were all just as scared about what was happening. Our minds weren’t exactly put at ease when we were given a briefing by the Houston police and fire departments on what to do if the arena was bombed.

  The show went off without a hitch, and after the show Edge, Christian, and I decided to make the 20-hour drive back to Tampa. We finally got back home on Friday and had to fly out for Raw in Memphis three days later.

  It was surreal walking through the deserted airport a mere six days after the attacks. There was nobody there, as the majority of the country was too scared to fly. Not that I wasn’t, but what choice did I have? The show must go on, remember?

  I got on the plane, and even though it was early morning, I stayed wide awake during the entire flight, waiting for some motherfucker to storm the cockpit. I envisioned what would’ve happened had the Taliban tried to hijack a plane carrying the WWE crew. Boxcutters versus the craziest mofos on the planet?

  Game over, jihad.

  Over the next few weeks, traveling to work got a whole lot more difficult. Pre 9/11 you could check in for a flight thirty minutes before it took off and breeze straight through security without a glance, but after the attacks all that changed. Now you had to check in an hour before and security had increased sevenfold. The airlines and the authorities weren’t taking any chances and became very strict with their rules for passenger conduct.

  At least most of the time.

  I was on a redeye from L.A. to Philly a few months later trying to catch some sleep. I was about to turn off my mind, relax, and float downstream when I heard some mumbling from a few rows behind me. Since I was sitting in first class (I can’t go back—I won’t) and away from the riffraff, I paid the mumbler no attention. Then the mumbling became a rumbling.

  “Hey! I need another drink right now!”

  Okay, so here we were only a few months after the worst terrorist attack in U.S. history and there’s a belligerent drunk on a plane demanding another drink. It was only a matter of time before the flight attendant took care of this assclown, I thought to myself.

  “Gimme another drink, dammit!!”

  My good-natured patience was running out as I was tired and hadn’t been able to sleep the whole flight. It was almost dawn, with the first faint rays of sunlight peeking through the clouds, and I was getting cranky. I rang my call button and asked the stewardess if there was anything she could do about this moron.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but he was cut off already,” she said curtly as if I was bothering her.

  I couldn’t figure out why she was allowing Sir Soused to continue making such a scene. A few of the other passengers had woken up and were giving him side glances.

  “This airline is a piece of shit!” he screamed. “This is bullshit!”

  He continued complaining, his voice getting louder, and I decided if the stewardess wasn’t going to do something about it I would.

  I walked over to his seat and got within inches of his face. Then I whispered menacingly in my best Dirty Harry voice, “Sir, I’m trying to sleep and I’m sick of listening to you complain. Shut your mouth and stop yelling right now. Don’t make me come back here again.”

  He looked back at me innocently as if he hadn’t said a word. I gave him a wink and felt a tap on my shoulder.

  “You need to return to your seat and stop making a scene, sir,” the attendant said confrontationally.

  I was making a scene? How had I become the scene maker?

  I sat down, but sleep had escaped me for good on that flight. I was so pissed off that I did nothing but stare out the window for the remainder of the flight, while Three Sheets to the Wind snored underneath his sheet.

  We finally landed in Philly in the pouring rain and stopped at the gate waiting to be towed in. MC Hammered awoke from his passout and started up again. “Why the hell are we waiting? I’m fucking late enough as it is!”

  We reached the gate and everybody stood up to get off the plane.

  “Come on, let’s get fucking—”

  I cut him off midsentence. “Listen, jackass! There are kids on this plane and you need to watch your language and keep your mouth shut, do you understand?” I warned, as the other passengers nodded in agreement. El Buzzo looked at his feet as I grabbed my bag and walked off the plane. When I passed the attendant, she said, “Sir, you need to settle down.”

  Settle down? What was with this chick? Did she bang this guy in the bathroom when I wasn’t looking?

  I got off the plane and headed straight for the men’s room to pee and calm down. I was turning over the events of the flight in my head, getting angrier by the second, when a guy in a business suit sidled up next to me, put down his leather briefcase, and unzipped his fly. He glanced at me and muttered a slurred hello.

  I couldn’t believe it. It was CM Drunk.

  What were the chances that (a) this asshole had chosen to take a piss right next to me and (b) he had no idea I was the guy who had gotten in his face and scolded him only minutes earlier? I smiled as he leaned his head against the wall and continued to drain himself. My flow was still going steady as I turned my hips slightly and pointed the stream directly at his briefcase. As I showered his business papers with my golden topping, my morning got a whole lot better. By the time I shook the last few drops into his now soggy suitcase, I was downright happy. His eyes were still closed as I zipped up my fly.

  “Have a nice day, sir. Make sure to stay out of the rain. You wouldn’t want to get wet!” I said jauntily. He nodded groggily and muttered that he wasn’t going to get wet.

  His briefcase wasn’t so lucky.

  CHAPTER 19

  Never Trust the Loch Ness Monster

  Meanwhile back at the ranch, things had started going down the toilet for WCW. By 2001, the company was completely out of control and losing millions of dollars while the TBS brass were fed up and looking to unload the company. Eric Bischoff put together a group of investors to buy the struggling organization, but just as the deal was about to go down, Jamie Kellner, the new president at TBS, decided he didn’t want wrestling on the television schedule anymore. Without a TV deal, the company was pretty much worthless to Eric’s group and they were out of the running.

  Enter Vince McMahon.

  For the paltry price tag of $2.5 million, WCW was sold to the man who had been their blood enemy for the past twenty years. Included in the price were all trademarks and video rights, which gave the WWE complete ownership of every match in WCW history.

  The complete bottoming out of WCW proved to me beyond all doubt that despite the trials and tribulations I’d suffered during my first year in the WWE, I’d made the right decision when I left. Vince took over the contracts of the entire WCW roster in the acquisition. Some he cut, some he sent to the developmental territories, and some he kept. His idea was to start an angle where the entire WCW roster would invade the WWE and try to take over. It was a great idea and a potential license to print money, but there was one problem.

  Most of the big-name players from WCW hadn’t signed with the WWE. While Hulk Hogan, Bill Goldberg, Ric Flair, Scott Hall, Kevin Nash, Scott Steiner, and Eric Bischoff eventually came to work for Vince, they didn’t initially. The first wave of the invasion consisted of such middle of the road stars as Buff Bagwell, Bill DeMott, Chris Kanyon, Mark Jindrak, and Sean O’Haire. All nice guys, but hardly the sort of talent that could lead a credible revolution against The Undertaker, Steve Austin, and The Rock.

  Vince’s initial idea was to have WCW be its own separate company that existed outside of the WWE’s walls and stood on its own. Then at the right time the two promotions would lock horns and battle each other to huge box-office returns. He planned on creating a Saturday night WCW
show and had even gone so far as booking the arenas and searching for a new TV deal to broadcast it.

  The whole concept fell apart during the last segment of Raw from Tacoma, Washington, a WCW title match between Booker T and Buff Bagwell, the two biggest WCW stars who’d signed with the WWE. Unfortunately, they had no idea how to work a proper WWE-style match and the result was horrendous. Ironically, Booker’s last feud in WCW was with Lance Storm, and had they wrestled that night things could’ve turned out differently. But it was decided that Bagwell had bigger star potential than Lance, so he got the match. Big mistake. When Vince saw Booker and Buff stink the joint out, he was convinced that nobody from WCW had any idea what they were doing (sounds familiar, doesn’t it?) and made up his mind that the company could never exist as a separate entity. So he took the same concept and made Raw and Smackdown! two distinctly different shows instead.

  So you can thank Buff Bagwell for the brand extension.

  * * *

  The Invasion began in the summer of 2001. In the classic tradition of most wrestling “invasions” (i.e., NWA, UWF, New Japan), instead of milking it for all it was worth, the WWE guys completely dominated the WCW guys and ended what could’ve been a year-long angle in about four months. After all those years of Bischoff guaranteeing he’d put the WWE out of business, Vince ended WCW as quickly as he could, and who can blame him?

  He won the wrestling war for good and got a stranglehold on the entire business as a result. He could now acquire any talent in the world and put together any match he wanted.

  Except one.

  I had a dream one night that Vince had signed the Loch Ness Monster to a multiyear deal so he could book the Loch Ness Monster vs. Chris Jericho—Live on PPV. I was very concerned about the professionalism of my opponent and was not happy when asked to do the job, especially when Vince explained that the finish would be Nessie swallowing me.

  “Vince, you can never trust the Loch Ness Monster! How am I supposed to just let him put me in his mouth and swallow me? I mean, I personally don’t have a problem with it, but my character would never do that!”